


Vanity Fear

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Chicken Pox, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal came down with the chicken pox, it turned out that looking awful wasn't the worst part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanity Fear

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story several weeks ago before my little fandom-break, and then I...forgot that it existed. I don't remember the exact origins of the story idea, but I'm sure that thanks are due to the usual suspects. If this came from a specific prompt somewhere, please let me know.

Peter felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out while he turned off the weed-wacker he was using to clean up the edges of the back yard. El was out of town working on an event, but Peter had talked to her just a few hours earlier, and she'd been so busy that he didn't expect to hear from her again so soon. He expected a call about work, maybe even a call from the Marshals that Neal had stepped outside of his radius, but seeing Sara Ellis's name was unexpected. She hadn't been involved in any recent cases, and as far as Peter knew things had cooled off between her and Neal. Peter hit the button to take the call just before it would've rolled over to voicemail.

"Sara?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you on the weekend, but I think something's going on with Neal."

Peter walked up to the porch and put the weed-wacker away; he had a feeling his Saturday afternoon was about to get more complicated. "Something like what? Has one of your clients--"

"No! No, nothing like that. We, uh, we had plans," Sara said, sounding mildly embarrassed. "Nothing big deal, just lunch, but he didn't show up on time. I walked over to his place and called from outside, and he answered but--I don't know. It was weird."

"Weird how?"

"He sounded really bad, like he'd just woken up but worse than any hangover I can imagine him getting. And he wouldn't let me come up, even when I told him that I would take his refusal as evidence of bad behavior."

"Bad behavior?" Peter was on his way upstairs; his grass-flecked shorts and t-shirt were too grubby for wearing outside of the house and yard.

"Oh, you know what I mean. A woman or some hijinks with Mozzie, but I was only kidding. He just mumbled some kind of apology and hung up." Sara sighed. "He just didn't sound like himself, and nobody answered the front door so I don't think June is home."

"He seemed off his game yesterday, so he probably just has a cold and didn't want you to see him looking less than perfect. I'll check on him though."

"You will? Thank you."

"You're welcome, but it's my job. I'll call you later."

"Great, thanks," Sara said, and then the line disconnected.

Peter changed into jeans and a clean t-shirt then called Neal on his way back down the stairs. When it went through to voicemail, Peter got Satchmo situated then grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out the door. In the car, he dialed Neal again. On the third ring, Neal answered.

"Peter?" His voice sounded awful, and Peter understood what Sara had been talking about.

"Hey, what's going on?"

"Huh? Oh." Neal groaned, a muffled sound like he was facing into a pillow. "Sara called you?"

"Yeah, she was worried that you wouldn't let her come up."

"I couldn't. I just--ugh."

"You're kind of worrying me here. What's wrong?"

"I have some kind of rash on my face. And it's spreading, I guess. The last person I want to see me like this is Sara."

"Look, I'm on my way over. If you're sick and you have some kind of rash that could be serious. You might need to go get looked at."

"You really don't need to do that. Seriously, the last thing I want right now is to be _looked at_."

"Oh well, I'm already on my way. I'll be there in twenty if the traffic behaves."

Neal groaned again, and Peter disconnected the call.

~~~

After his knock went unanswered, Peter let himself into June's house and climbed the stairs through the dark, quiet house. Neal called out, "It's unlocked," before Peter could knock on his door, and Peter entered the shadowy apartment to find Neal sitting slumped at the dining table in his pajama pants and a robe.

"Hey," Peter said as he walked over.

Neal looked up, a resigned expression on his face--along with what looked at first like the worst teenage breakout imaginable. "I thought about putting a bag over my head, but I didn't think you'd go for that."

"Not really." Peter turned on a light to get a better look, and a close look made the problem obvious. "Oh, wow."

"I know, it's disgusting." Neal sighed.

"It's the chicken pox. How did you make it to your thirties without having this before?"

"But I did." Neal leaned his head on his hand and started to scratch at his face until Peter swatted at his fingers. "My mother told me I did. I think."

Peter sat down in the chair diagonally across from Neal. "I think she was wrong. I was twelve when I had it, and I remember what it looks like. I'd still like for you to go get checked out."

"I don't feel that bad, mostly just tired. And itchy. And I really don't want to go outside looking like this."

Peter shook his head. "You're taking vanity a little bit far."

Neal sat up and crossed his arms over his chest, the defiant posture somewhat amusing given his robe and pajamas. "Maybe I am, but it's my choice. Isn't it?"

"Yes, at least for now. I was going to invite you to come stay at my house, but that would also require going outside."

Neal closed his eyes for a moment, looking like he was thinking about it, but then he shook his head. "I'm tired and itchy and cranky, and I'm better off by myself."

"Speaking of that, what's up with you and Sara?"

Neal shrugged. "We're talking, that's all."

"Talking is good. I told her that I'd call her back. What do you want me to tell her?"

Neal groaned. "Can you just tell her I have the flu or something? She would never stop laughing about me having the chicken pox."

"Sure, I can do that."

"Thanks." Neal looked over at Peter, his expression a mix of miserable and sheepish. "I was going to find somewhere that would deliver, but since you're here would you mind getting me a few things?"

"Of course not. Do you know what you need."

Neal shrugged. "Not really."

"I'll figure it out. Why don't you go back to bed? I'll run out for supplies and wake you up when I come back."

Neal sighed and coughed a little on the exhale then nodded. He pushed himself up from the table, and made his slow but steady way over to the bed while Peter shadowed him but didn't let himself reach out to help. "I don't remember the last time I was this tired," he said as he sat down on the side of the bed.

"Then you should just rest."

"That's what I was trying to do when you called me."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be back soon."

Neal nodded. As he curled up under the covers he mumbled a sleepy "thanks" that made Peter smile.

Forty-five minutes later, Peter climbed the stairs up to Neal's apartment again, this time laden down with bags from the drug store, grocery store and the deli. He doubted that Neal had much around, so from the drug store he bought cold medicine, anti-itch lotion, oatmeal bath powder, a thermometer and a pair of left-over winter mittens from the dollar bin. He picked up some sick food from the grocery store--jello and tapioca pudding, plus canned soup, bread for toast, and some juice. From the deli he brought fresh matzo ball soup for Neal and a sandwich for himself.

It would've been easier just to take Neal back to Brooklyn, but Peter understood that, beyond the whole ridiculous vanity problem, Neal just wanted his own bed, his own space. Given that Neal didn't seem particularly sick, Peter figured he had to respect that.

Peter put away the groceries, set the deli food and the drugstore supplies out on the table, then went to wake Neal up. He was fast asleep with the covers pushed down to his waist, one hand unconsciously scratching at his belly; Peter knew those mittens would come in handy. Peter took the thermometer out of its packaging and slipped on one of the little plastic covers then reached out to touch Neal's shoulder. "Neal, hey."

Neal inhaled sharply as he woke up, then coughed again. "Hey, Peter. You came back."

"I did indeed. Put this in your mouth for a minute, okay?" Peter held the thermometer in front of Neal's face. Neal looked mulish, but he plucked the light piece of plastic from Peter's fingers and stuck it under his tongue. "Have you had anything to eat today? Just nod or shake your head."

Neal aimed a slow, annoyed blink at Peter then shook his head.

"What about something to drink?"

Neal nodded this time.

"That's good." The thermometer beeped and Neal squinted at it then handed it over with a shrug. It said 101°--not great, not bad enough to bully Neal to go to urgent care. "That's less good, but I got you some drugs. And some soup."

"Really not hungry," Neal mumbled.

"If you eat some soup and take some pills, I'll leave you alone. Is that sufficient motivation?"

"Mmm, yeah." Neal sat up and coughed into his fist before standing up to shuffle over to the table. Peter didn't like the fact that Neal was coughing but it didn't sound bad, more like an irritated throat than anything else.

Peter heated up a bowl of the matzo ball soup for Neal and ate his sandwich while Neal worked on the soup. When Neal pushed his empty bowl across the table, he said, "Will you leave me to suffer in peace now?"

"Yeah, okay, in a few minutes." Peter made sure Neal took some of the cold pills and used some of the lotion then showed him the mittens and the groceries and put a bottle of water on his bedside table. When Peter left, Neal was sprawled out in the bed, and Peter figured he had done his best.

~~~

Peter called to check up on Neal that evening and, sleepy and irritated as he was, Neal confirmed that he wasn't any worse.

"Yes, Peter, I drank some juice and ate some pudding. You know I'm not actually in kindergarten, right?"

"I know. How's your temperature?"

Neal sighed and coughed lightly. "Down a little bit. Thanks for the medicine and everything, really. I'm sorry, I just--"

"It's okay," Peter said slowly. "I'll let you rest. Just call me if you feel worse, and I'll stop by tomorrow to check on you."

"You don't need to do that."

"Well, I'm going to. I'll call when I'm on my way."

"Thanks," Neal said, and Peter had a feeling that gratitude was just a little bit less pretend than Neal wanted him to believe.

Aside from checking in on Neal, Peter planned to spend Sunday doing some more work around the house and maybe reading the newspaper with Satchmo for company. That plan was scuttled when a case that had been slowly proceeding for weeks turned hot. Peter called the team into the office Sunday morning, and the next twelve hours took Peter from his office to the conference room to the van and eventually to a successful takedown outside of a warehouse in New Jersey. When he got a few quiet moments, Peter called Neal to check in.

"Hi," Neal answered, sounding just as rough and exhausted as he had the day before.

"How are you feeling?"

"Ugh," Neal said, then coughed. "Not great. Not dying."

"Okay." Peter sighed heavily. "Look, I'm not going to be able to come by today, or at least not until late this evening. Possibly. You know the Krause Electronics case?"

"Uh-huh."

"We got a break on it, and we're hoping to get the whole thing tied up today. El is still out of town or I'd get her to come check on you."

"Peter, I'm just going to sleep and try not to scratch. I don't need a babysitter."

"Well, I don't like it but we don't have a lot of options here." Peter heard somebody calling his name from the hallway, and he shook his head. "I'll check in with you later. Call me if you need to."

"Good luck," Neal said.

"Thanks."

Peter hung up and over the next several hours he was busy enough that he barely had time to breathe much less worry about Neal. It was after nine in the evening, when Peter was sitting in the van with Diana, taking a breather before heading back to the office, that he looked at his phone to see if he'd missed anything when he had it turned off during the takedown.

"Damn it," he muttered when he noticed Neal had called half an hour earlier.

"What?" Diana asked, looking up from her own phone.

"Neal called, but he didn't leave a message. Maybe it was nothing."

"What does he have, anyway? The flu?"

"Chicken pox." Peter shook his head. "And I think his vanity is hurting as much as anything else."

Diana didn't look amused. "How sick is he?"

"You know how it is with the chicken pox. He's miserable, but I think he's mostly just sleeping."

"But it can be pretty serious for adults. Did he get checked out?"

"He didn't want to go out, and I didn't make him." _It was just chicken pox,_ Peter thought, but the idea that it could be serious put a new wrinkle in things. He tried calling Neal back, but it rang until the voicemail picked up. "Neal, I'm sorry I missed you. Call me back."

"You want to get out of here so you can go check on him?"

Peter didn't want to leave with loose ends still untied but he was starting to have a bad feeling about Neal. He didn't know how to answer Diana's question.

Diana shook her head. "Go. Jones and I can get the van back to the office."

"I hate to leave before everything's finished, but--"

"Just go. Tell Neal I hope he's feeling better."

"I will. Thanks, Di." Peter dialed Neal again as he found an agent to drive him back to the office where his car was waiting. Once again, Neal didn't pick up, and Peter didn't like it. He didn't like the growing suspicion in his gut that something was very wrong.

In the car, Peter googled adult chicken pox and found that Diana had been correct. Adult men especially were prone to complications from a disease that Peter remembered for the itching and boredom more than any real sick feeling. When the car exited the tunnel into Manhattan, Peter called again, and just as Peter was getting ready for the voicemail to click in, the call picked up. Instead of Neal's voice, all Peter heard was coughing--considerably deeper coughing than he'd heard a day and a half ago.

"Neal?" Peter listened as Neal took in a breath but then coughed some more, and the worry he'd felt grew a lot stronger. "Neal?" The coughing tapered off, and as Peter listened to Neal's rough, too fast breathing he muted the phone and turned to the probie in the driver's seat. "Change of plans. I need you to head uptown to Riverside." When the agent nodded, Peter unmuted the call. "Neal?"

"I don't," Neal began then took another quick breath, "feel right."

"Listen, I'm on my way. Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

"Uh," Neal said, "no," and Peter didn't know if the pause between the words was from indecision or lack of oxygen but he didn't like it either way.

"Damn it," Peter whispered. He found the bubble light in the car's floorboards and opened his window to stick it on top of the car as the probie looked over in alarm. "Riverside and 81st. Get us there _now_." The car picked up speed and Peter turned his attention back to Neal. "I'm going to be there soon. Can you tell me what's going on?"

"Tired," Neal whispered in between ragged breaths.

"Okay. It's okay. Just stay on the line and keep breathing."

"'kay."

Neal didn't say anything after that, and Peter kept the phone to his ear as he watched the blocks go by. He thought about calling an ambulance to meet them at the house, but Neal didn't sound like he was getting any worse. "We just passed 78th. Almost there."

"Can I ask what's going on?"

Peter looked over at the probie and muted the phone again but kept it at his ear so he could listen to Neal. "The consultant on my team is sick, and I think he needs a trip to the emergency room."

"What's wrong with him."

"Chicken pox. I assume you've already had it?"

"Third grade."

"Good. Do you mind coming in with me? I think another set of hands to help get him down the stairs would be a good idea."

"No problem."

Peter unmuted his phone. "Neal? I'm out front. I'm hanging up but I'll be there in a minute." As soon as the car was stopped, Peter got out and jogged up the steps to unlock the door, the probie right behind him.

"Your consultant lives _here_?"

"It's a long story." Inside the shadowy foyer, Peter didn't have time for the probie to gawk at the house. He flipped the switch that turned on the lights that lit the stairs and started to climb. "Agent--I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Evan Pollard. I've only been with Organized Crime for a month."

"Nice to meet you, Evan. Let's go." When they reached the top of the stairs, Peter went to open the door then paused. "Do you mind waiting out here for now?" Evan shrugged so Peter let himself in and closed the door behind him. "Neal?"

A cough came from the direction of Neal's bed, and Peter turned on the overhead light as he hurried over there. Neal was sitting halfway folded over on the side of the bed, looking ready to launch himself onto the floor with the force of his coughing. Under Peter's hand, Neal's back felt overly warm through the thin cotton t-shirt he was wearing. Peter rubbed his hand up and down Neal's back, and after another minute the coughing tapered off into shuddering breaths.

Peter tugged on Neal's shoulder to help him sit up straight, and now that Peter could see his face it was clear how sick he was. His eyes were glassy, his face chalky pale where it wasn't livid red from the pox, and even now that he wasn't coughing he was breathing much too quickly. Peter spotted the thermometer on the bedside table and picked it up.

"Hold this under your tongue, okay?" Neal looked bleary and uncomprehending, so Peter cupped one hand behind Neal's head and popped the thermometer into his mouth. Neal was getting a ride to the ER no matter what the thermometer said, but Peter wanted to know how bad it was. While Neal sat on the bed, Peter collected a jacket and shoes as well as Neal's wallet and keys. The thermometer beeped as he got back to the bed, and when Peter pulled it out the result was about as bad as he'd been expecting.

"104, Neal. Not good. You should have called me."

"Did," Neal said, then let out a trio of rough coughs.

"Earlier, I mean. But nevermind. Can you put on your shoes?"

Peter put Neal's loafers down on the floor, and Neal stood up, wavering as he stepped into them. Peter helped Neal into his jacket and then put an arm around his back to steer him toward the door. Neal's acquiescence was disquieting, as was his silence in regards to the indignity of going outside in his pajamas with a face and body full of chicken pox, but Peter was glad he didn't have to fight. Outside the door, Neal looked over at Agent Pollard and then back at Peter. "Who?" He asked, then pressed a hand to his chest and frowned.

"He's our ride. Don't worry about it." Neal was somewhat steady on his feet, so Peter thought they might be able to make it down the stairs safely without help. "Evan, I think we're okay. Just stay close."

Peter kept his arm around Neal's back, and they slowly and steadily worked their way down the stairs until, halfway down the second flight, Neal gave into another round of explosive coughs. Peter sat him down on the steps and rubbed his back, but even as the violence of the coughing calmed Neal's eyes were still wide with panic, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and when Peter checked he saw a tinge of blue at his fingertips.

Peter looked up at Evan, who was hovering next to them. "We need to get him to the car right now." Evan nodded, and after an awkward process of standing up together they carried Neal between them down the rest of the stairs and then outside to the car. Peter put Neal into the back seat then went around the car to get in next to him.

"Lennox Hill?" Evan asked as he started the car and pulled out into the street.

"Yes. Quickly." Peter sat sideways on the seat, keeping one hand on Neal's shoulder to hold him upright and the other hand on Neal's face to get his attention. "Just take steady, shallow breaths. You're going to be okay."

Neal shook his head, his eyes frantic as he continued to gasp unsteadily.

"Yes. They're going to give you some oxygen and some drugs, and you're going to feel better. I promise." Peter hoped like hell that he wasn't making a promise he couldn't keep. In the background, Peter heard Evan calling ahead to the hospital, and as soon as they pulled up in front of the emergency room doors medical staff was on-hand to load Neal, barely conscious, onto a gurney. Peter watched, stunned, as they rolled Neal back into the treatment area then stood, hands on his hips, trying to figure out what to do next.

"Agent Burke?" Peter turned around to see Evan, standing nearby. "If you give me your keys, I can drive your car over, park it in the deck here."

Peter nodded slowly. "I would appreciate that." He handed over his keys, and Evan left with a promise to text the location of the parking spot to Peter later. Peter filled out Neal's admission paperwork then sat and leaned his head back against the wall. The day had been long even before everything went to hell, and Peter wished he could sleep but he had a feeling that the sight of Neal's pale, panicked face was going to keep him awake for days. He thought about how good it would be if El were there waiting with him then jerked upright in his seat.

It was Sunday night, and El's plane was due--he looked at his watch--two hours ago. Peter didn't bother checking on the flight; he just called her.

She answered in the middle of the first ring. "Hey, hon, I was just about to call you."

"Hi, hon. You're home?"

"I got in about fifteen minutes ago to a dark house and a hungry dog. What happened?"

Peter sighed, leaning forward over his knees. "Work happened, and then Neal happened. I'm so sorry, El."

"What do you mean, Neal happened? Where are you now?"

"Lennox Hill. Neal got sick, chicken pox, and I don't know what happened exactly but it wasn't good."

"How not good?" Peter could see in his mind the way her face would look, the crinkle that formed between her eyebrows when she was worried.

"He was having trouble breathing. We just got him here a few minutes ago."

"Aw, hon. I can be there in, well, an hour maybe?"

"No. I know you're exhausted, and Satchmo's been alone all day. I'll call you when I know what's going on, but, El? If the doctor doesn't decide to keep him in the hospital--"

"Bring him here. Of course."

"Okay. I love you. I'll talk to you later."

"I love you. I hope Neal's okay."

Peter hung up, and leaned back against the wall again, thinking _me too, me too._

Peter wasn't sure how much time had passed when somebody called his name and a nurse directed him back through the doors to the treatment area and down to one in a row of curtained cubicles. "The doctor should be by again in a few minutes."

Peter braced himself as he pushed through the curtain, then relaxed when he saw that Neal was awake, if barely, and looking somewhat better. "Hey," Peter said softly.

"Hi." Neal's voice came out a quiet rasp, but paired with a sleepy smile it was a relief compared to how he'd looked before. Neal looked washed-out against the hospital gown, and the chicken pox blisters looked worse in the harsh hospital lighting, but there was no touch of blue to his fingertips and he was breathing much more slowly and regularly. He had an IV in one arm, an oxygen tube running under his nose, a clip on his finger, and a couple of sticky pads on his chest, but he was conscious, and Peter would take that.

He put a hand on Neal's shoulder and squeezed lightly "Go to sleep if you want. I'll stay unless they kick me out."

Neal nodded, and his eyes drifted closed as he slipped into sleep. Peter sat in the metal chair next to Neal's bed and let his eyes close too, though sleep was far from happening. When he heard the rattle of the curtain opening, Peter opened his eyes and immediately stood to greet the doctor.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Singh. You are--?"

"Special Agent Peter Burke. Neal works for me, and I'm also the emergency contact in his paperwork."

Dr. Singh checked the electronic file and nodded. "So you are. Well, Neal has the chicken pox, obviously, and he unfortunately developed a complication of varicella pneumonia, but I think he will be okay."

"He was hardly breathing earlier."

"Neal was in respiratory distress, but we gave him a breathing treatment, and he's doing very well on a low concentration of oxygen right now. We're giving him some fluids as well as an anti-viral to hopefully speed up his recovery. If everything is looking good, we'll release him in a few hours as long as somebody can check on him at home."

"He'll come home with me."

"Very good. I'll talk to you and Neal later, then."

When the doctor left, Peter sat back down and made a quick call to El to let her know the status of the situation. He sent a text to Diana and thought about contacting Sara or Mozzie but decided to leave that to Neal. His thing with Sara seemed a little bit too tentative for hospital visits, even aside from Neal's vanity, and Peter didn't have to ask why Mozzie wasn't around when Neal was sick. The little guy would probably have to break out the Russian surplus hazmat suit to get nearby without going nuts, and Neal wouldn't likely appreciate that.

But El was getting the guest room ready, and Neal would be okay. Peter closed his eyes and tried to rest but between the uncomfortable chair, the sounds and smells of the hospital and the memory of Neal's panicked eyes and dusky purple lips his mind wouldn't disengage. Neal slept and breathed, Peter waited and watched, and the late hours of the evening passed very, very slowly.

~~~

When Neal shrugged off Peter's assistance on the way up the stairs to his front door in Brooklyn, Peter was glad to have Neal back to his previous state of sick, tetchy and tired but _breathing_. At 2 a.m., he expected the house to be dark, but the downstairs lights were visible from outside, and El met them at the door. She was a welcome sight, beautiful in her pajamas and robe, with no makeup and her hair looped up in a sloppy bun.

"Thanks, for letting me come stay," Neal said, sounding not entirely glad to be there.

"Oh, you're welcome. You shouldn't be by yourself when you're so sick." She pulled him in for a hug, but he held himself stiff, and she let him go with just a hint of a pout on her face. "You want to go get settled in upstairs."

Neal nodded, and Peter watched as he trudged up the stairs, one hand ghosting along the banister for support. When Neal was out of sight, Peter sighed and turned to pull El into his arms. "I'm so glad to see you." They kissed and then just leaned into each other for a long moment. "You didn't have to wait up though."

"I know. I tried to go to bed but I just couldn't. Do you want something to drink?"

"I just want a shower and my bed and you. Can you check on Neal while I clean up?"

"Of course. Is there anything I need to know?"

"He has some pills, but he doesn't have to take any of them until morning. There's an inhaler he should have out, though. We're supposed to keep an eye on his fever for the next couple of days but unless he seems really off he should be fine for now. Oh, they said he should sleep propped up on a couple of pillows until his lungs clear up."

"I can do that."

Peter turned off the lights and followed El up the stairs. Taking a hot shower and trading his suit for boxers and a t-shirt went a long way towards taking the edge off the overtired, sore feeling of hours at the hospital on top of a long weekend day at work and in the field, and Peter went to make sure Neal was settled before getting into bed himself.

In the guest room, the small bedside lamp was on and Neal was reclining on a pile of pillows and squinting at his phone. "Why are you still awake?" Peter asked.

Neal shrugged and put his phone down. "I guess I got a bunch of sleep at the hospital. I don't know." Hours of sleep or not, Neal still sounded utterly exhausted.

"I know you miss your own bed."

Neal shrugged again. "I guess." He met Peter's eyes for just a second, and there was something unexpected there. Some kind of fear.

Peter sat down on the open side of the bed next to Neal and leaned against the headboard. "You know, I was pretty worried, back at your place and then in the car."

Neal nodded, looking pensive. "I was scared," he said quietly. "And confused, but mostly scared."

Peter's breath caught in his chest at that admission from Neal, the man who was always fearless. "I was too. But you can breathe okay now, right?"

"Yes." Neal rubbed at his chest. "A little sore, but I can breathe." Neal dropped his hand from his chest and went quiet, but Peter didn't think he was finished. After a minute, Neal looked away. "I just keep thinking--I woke up, and it was dark out, and I couldn't breathe. And I couldn't keep my thoughts together."

Peter thought it made sense--Neal had been betrayed by his body and his mind, both usually so strong. He'd been alone and scared, and he didn't know what to do with that. Peter reached out and put his hand behind the base of Neal's neck, feeling the tense muscles and tendons there. He rubbed his fingers in small circles and felt Neal relax into his hand. "Just sleep. You're okay. You'll be okay."

Neal sighed and closed his eyes, and the next thing Peter knew it was morning. He had a pillow stuffed behind his head and a blanket draped over him, and Neal was still asleep on the other side of the bed. Peter stood up, moving slowly in an attempt to avoid waking up Neal, then crept down the hall to his own bedroom. He crawled in behind El, and she sighed as she relaxed back against him. It was daylight but everybody was safe and sound, and Peter was taking the damn day off work. With El warm in his arms, he fell back to sleep. 


End file.
